


Light in Darkness

by wesleysgirl



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4358684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleysgirl/pseuds/wesleysgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the third Fic challenge (Hurt/Comfort Challenge) at <a href="http://www.no-hero.org/spikenwes/main.html">Peaches Won't Be Happy</a>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Light in Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the third Fic challenge (Hurt/Comfort Challenge) at [Peaches Won't Be Happy](http://www.no-hero.org/spikenwes/main.html).

  
  
  
One could get jumped anywhere.  
  
This time it was on the way back from the Chinese restaurant that was  
four blocks from Wesley's apartment. It was late, certainly. They should  
have been more aware of their surroundings -- no arguing that. Instead  
they'd been paying a bit too much attention to each other. Spike's hand  
had been in Wesley's back pocket.  
  
"I told you that fresh pineapple is better," Wesley said, and then the  
vampires came out of nowhere. Under the circumstances they were fortunate  
that there were only two, and that Spike was similarly equipped to fight  
\-- otherwise, things might have gone more badly than they did.  
  
Wesley staggered as a heavy body collided with his own, and looked around  
frantically for something, anything, he could use as a weapon. He heard  
a grunt off to the side that didn't sound like Spike, but he couldn't  
spare a glance in that direction because he was too busy rolling in  
the other as he tried to avoid the fist aimed at his face. The blow  
glanced off the side of his head instead, but Wesley continued the roll  
and snatched up a scrap of broken crate from just inside the alleyway  
between the two buildings that were on either side of them.  
  
Before he could get his feet under him enough so that he could put the  
makeshift stake to use, Wesley's eyes caught a glint of light off of  
metal.  
  
He was too slow, and the blade sliced downward through air and then  
flesh, the cut a bright hot flare of agony across his upper arm that  
slowed him down further. He was aware that he was in trouble for only  
a brief instant, as an arm wrapped around him and there was the sharp  
kiss of fangs in his throat, and then there was the familiar vacuum-implosion  
of a vampire being dusted.  
  
Wesley started to collapse, but Spike was right there, grabbing onto  
him with hands that were hard and gentle at the same time.  
  
"Christ, Wes," Spike was saying as he shifted his grip, holding Wesley  
up. Careful fingers were at Wesley's throat, assessing the damage there.  
All Wesley could feel was that his neck was slick with blood. "You okay?"  
  
"Not a word I would have chosen," Wesley said. His voice sounded rather  
faint to his own ears. The cuff of his shirt was getting wet. Why?  
  
Spike shifted his grip again, muttering something under his breath,  
and his fingers brushed across Wesley's arm, reminding Wes instantly  
of why his sleeve was clinging damply to his skin. He must have made  
a noise, because Spike stopped. Wesley felt his shirt being torn impatiently,  
and then Spike swore and removed it the rest of the way, tying it around  
Wes' upper arm with a pressure that made the edges of the world brighten.  
"Need to get you to a hospital," Spike said.  
  
That perked Wesley up a bit. "No," he said tensely. "No hospitals. I've  
plenty of first aid supplies back at the flat. It's not that bad."  
  
"You think that because you haven't seen it," Spike said.  
  
"I've been injured countless times, Spike. On many occasions more seriously  
than this. I assure you that I'd know if I needed professional care."  
Wesley hoped his tone of voice sounded more convincing aloud than it  
did in his head.  
  
Spike looked skeptical, but didn't seem inclined to argue. He moved  
to Wesley's good side and slipped an arm around his waist. "Well come  
on then, let's get you back to the flat before you bleed out."  
  
"I'm fine," Wesley said, although he was grateful for the supporting  
arm as they started to walk.  
  
It seemed no time at all before they were back at his flat. Spike dug  
into Wesley's pocket for the keys without any comments about groping,  
which told Wesley more clearly than anything else might have just how  
worried the vampire was.  
  
Spike helped him inside and lowered him to the couch. "Stay there. First  
aid stuff's in the bathroom?"  
  
"Yes." Wesley leaned back and closed his eyes, aware that he should  
try not to bleed on the sofa but not sure he had the energy to see that  
he wasn't.  
  
Cool fingers on his face. "Wes?"  
  
"I'm all right," he said, opening his eyes.  
  
Spike was perched on the edge of the coffee table. "You will be if you  
stop bleeding everywhere." He was untying the torn sleeve from Wesley's  
arm and replacing it with a wad of gauze pads, pressing them tightly  
to the wound. "Hold these."  
  
Wesley obeyed automatically, his opposite hand coming up to hold the  
pads in place as Spike rummaged in the first aid kit for other supplies.  
  
"Needle and thread?" Spike asked.  
  
"Should be in the bottom," Wesley said, closing his eyes again. "Is  
it necessary?"  
  
"What do you think?" Spike sounded angry. "Someone qualified should  
be doing this, Wes, not me."  
  
Wesley opened his eyes and met Spike's blue ones. "You'll do fine,"  
he said soothingly. "I'd much prefer you do it, here, than go in to  
Emergency."  
  
He watched as Spike took a deep calming breath, then nodded. "Okay.  
Right. You want something first?"  
  
"A drink might not be a bad idea," Wesley agreed. He was starting to  
feel more lightheaded, and he wouldn't have denied that being unconscious  
for the actual stitching would be preferable, but enough liquor to do  
that wouldn't be a good idea physically.  
  
Spike had already gotten up and grabbed the whisky bottle. He sloshed  
some into a glass and frowned at Wesley. "Here, I'll do this..." He  
took over holding the gauze pads so that Wesley could hold the glass.  
"Yeah, it's not slowing down," he muttered. "Needs stitches for sure."  
  
Wesley gulped the liquor as quickly as he could, not interested in savoring  
or even really tasting it, and then handed the glass back wordlessly.  
  
"Lie down," Spike told him, guiding him gently into a reclining position.  
A towel was padded underneath Wesley's arm. "Think I should give it  
a splash of this?" he asked, gesturing with the bottle of alcohol.  
  
"Couldn't hurt," Wesley said, meaning the exact opposite.  
  
"Could and will," Spike said, and without further warning removed the  
gauze pads and poured a healthy dollop of whisky over the open wound.  
  
It was like a brush fire burning out of control -- pain roared through  
Wesley, and the sound of it filled his ears and eyes as he choked back  
a scream and then subsided into blissful nothingness.  
  


 

  
* * * * *

Spike was grateful when Wes passed out. Bad enough to have to sew him  
up at all, without having to do it with him all tense and in pain. More  
pain. Christ.

He set to quickly -- sterilized the needle and thread, and started to  
use it to draw the meaty flesh of Wes' upper arm back together. It wasn't  
the first time he'd sewn someone up, but he wasn't experienced enough  
that it was simple. Spike concentrated on keeping the stitches shallow  
enough that they'd be easy to remove later, and tried to work as speedily  
as he could.

Just as he was drawing the needle through for the last time, Wes twitched  
and made a little sound.

"S'okay," Spike said gently. "I'm almost done, just take it easy. Try  
not to move."

Wesley's eyes were duller than usual, his lips set in a narrow line.  
"Almost done?" he repeated.

"Yeah, you missed all the fun." Spike tied the final knot and cut the  
thread with the small surgical scissors. "There we go. Don't try to  
get up, I'm gonna put some salve and a bandage over it just for now."

"Oh, trust me," Wesley said, "I don't have plans to get up any time  
soon."

"Good." Spike swabbed away the worst of the blood and smeared a liberal  
amount of antibiotic cream over the stitched area, then taped a bandage  
over it. "There. Now let's take a look at this other..."

Wesley turned his head away helpfully, baring his throat to Spike in  
a move that went right to his groin. Did it every time, in fact.

He'd known by the time they got back to the flat that the throat wound  
wasn't anything to worry about. Couple of punctures, already starting  
to scab up at that point. Now the blood there was mostly dried -- there  
was just the faintest glisten in one tiny spot. Spike sighed and reached  
for a fresh gauze pad, but Wesley's voice stopped him.

"Don't."

"You don't want me to clean it off?"

"Not with that."

Spike looked at Wes uncertainly. "You want me to...?"

"Go ahead," Wesley said, and then, when Spike continued to hesitate,  
"I trust you."

That was more than Spike had ever expected to hear. He *knew* Wes trusted  
him -- of course he knew that -- but he hadn't thought he'd ever hear  
Wesley actually come right out and say it. Still, "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Carefully, Spike leaned in, resting one hand flat on Wesley's chest,  
feeling the man breathing in and out. He brought his mouth to the wound.  
Inhaled the scent of the blood -- both dried, on the surface, and fresh,  
just underneath, cells still living and moving with a life of their  
own.

Spike settled his lips over the punctures and let his tongue stroke  
over the fractured skin, tasting Wesley in that moment more purely than  
he ever had before. Wes groaned softly, the sound vibrating under Spike's  
palm, but it didn't seem pained.

As his tongue worked at the dried blood, a fresh flow started again,  
tiny amounts of it mixing with his saliva and filling his mouth. Spike  
felt his face shift almost against his will and tensed, but then Wesley's  
hand was touching his own where it rested on Wes' chest, their fingers  
entwining as Spike drank.

He didn't draw from the wound at all -- he just let the natural flow  
of the blood move into his mouth. It wasn't about feeding, not really,  
although he was just as hard as if it had been.

"Spike," Wesley said. It didn't quite sound like his name, the way Wes  
said it. He slid their joined hands further down his body until Spike's  
palm was resting over Wes' hardening erection, and Wes shifted his hips  
restlessly.

Moving away from Wes' throat, Spike leaned in to kiss him, wondering  
if Wesley could taste his own blood in Spike's mouth. "Not a good idea,"  
he said reluctantly.

"What?" Wesley asked. "Licking my throat? Or touching my cock?" He shifted  
his hips again and then moaned slightly against Spike's lips.

"Both," Spike told him, even though he couldn't resist squeezing Wes  
through the denim fabric of his jeans. "You should be resting." He kissed  
Wes again, lingeringly.

"You're probably right," Wesley said. "We could go to bed?"

"Smart man." Spike stood up and pulled Wes to his feet, then grabbed  
onto him tighter as the other man swayed. "Easy there."

"I'm all right," Wesley said.

"Sure you are."

Once he had Wes undressed and settled into bed -- and once he'd gotten  
a towel from the bathroom to put under Wes, who insisted that he didn't  
want to bleed on the sheets -- Spike went back to the kitchen for a  
glass of water.

"Here you go. Gotta replace all those fluids." He handed it over and  
Wesley hitched himself painfully up onto one elbow and drank.

Spike shed his own clothes and slipped between the sheets, then took  
the empty glass from Wes and put it on the bedside table. He lay on  
his back, and after a couple of seconds Wesley moved closer and draped  
his injured arm carefully over Spike, resting his cheek on Spike's shoulder.  
"Thank you. For patching me up."

"Welcome. My fault it happened in the first place."

"What?" Wes lifted his head briefly to look at Spike.

"Well, if we hadn't gone out you wouldn't have been there, would you?  
Plus I should have been quicker."

Wes' finger traced a little circle around Spike's nipple idly. "Firstly,  
I often go out in the evenings when you're not here. And secondly, you  
were there when I needed you. That's all that matters."

The pad of his index finger rubbed over Spike's nipple once, then again,  
and Spike felt his earlier erection returning with a vengeance. "Wes,"  
he groaned softly, as that finger moved slowly down underneath the sheet  
and started to draw an intricate pattern along the length of his cock.  
"Not the right time."

"It's always the right time," Wesley corrected him, as his fingertip  
collected the drop of pre-come welling from Spike and spread it around  
the head of his cock. Spike could feel Wes' hard-on pressing into his  
hip insistently.

"Don't want to hurt you," Spike said.

"You won't." Wes kissed him gently, and then said, "I need this. Please?"

Spike feigned a gasp. "I think I'm hearing things. Did the great Wesley  
Wyndam-Pryce just say 'please?'"

Wesley kissed him again, harder this time, continuing to fondle Spike's  
cock as he did so. "I'm sure I'll be saying it again before we're through."

"Oh, you will," Spike said. He slid down Wes' body, pushing Wes over  
onto his back, and then taking Wes' cock into his mouth and grinning  
around it as Wesley gasped and clenched his fist in the sheets. The  
taste of Wes' blood still filled his senses, and he let himself get  
lost in that, let instinct take over. He moved further down, his tongue  
circling Wesley's balls and then behind, leaving everything damp and  
slick, leaving Wesley writhing and breathless.

"Please," Wes gasped finally, and Spike was so distracted that he almost  
missed it. "Spike... fuck me..."

He didn't need a second invitation -- one of the beauties of being a  
vampire -- and he carefully slid home, making sure that he didn't jar  
Wes' injured arm against the towel. "Okay?" he asked, needing to hear  
it.

Wesley sucked in a breath and nodded. "Yes." His hips tilted slightly  
in repeat invitation, the one that Spike hadn't thought he'd need. "Yes.  
Please."

Usually it was rougher, faster. Not that there wasn't affection between  
them -- there was -- but because it was about the fucking. It was about  
what felt good and what got them both off.

This here, this was about something else too. Wes brought out feelings  
in Spike that he wasn't sure Wes would like to hear about -- Spike wanted  
to protect him, take care of him. Do right by him.

Christ. M aybe these were things *he* shouldn't be thinking about.

So instead, Spike let himself get lost again. Lost in the heat, lost  
in the way the friction drove him just about out of his mind. Wes was  
moaning softly beneath him, but lying unusually still, and the sheer  
difference of it just made it all the hotter. Spike shifted his weight,  
changing the angle of his careful thrusts slightly, and Wes made a strangled  
sound.

"There," Wes said. "Right... oh God..."

It was the tone of his voice, the taut Britishness of it, that pushed  
Spike over the edge. He shouted from deep in his chest as it rushed  
out of him, pumping his hips more quickly as he came. He reached for  
Wes' cock and gave it a couple of rough jerks, and then Wesley tightened  
up -- underneath him, around him -- and came too, the warm wetness spurting  
over his fingers.

They both shuddered, gasping, and then Spike leaned down and kissed  
Wes, careful not to bump his arm. He pressed a second kiss to the wound  
on Wes' throat and then withdrew and lay down next to him, cradling  
him close. "You okay?"

"Fine." Wesley sounded relaxed.

"You need some more water or anything? Painkillers?"

Wesley shook his head slightly, rolling it against Spike's shoulder.  
"No, I've everything I need right here."

Spike closed his eyes and sighed contentedly.

 

 

End


End file.
